Bride of the Isle

by Maguire, Margo

  “Nay, Lady Cristiane,” he said. “I am at leisure to do as I please.”

  She did not know how that was possible, but did not argue. However, she caught sight of Margaret at that moment, showing a great deal of interest in the conversation between Adam and herself. She knew naught of children and the things they liked, but said anyway, “Mayhap Margaret would like to join our tour?”

  Adam hesitated, then a smile touched one side of his mouth. “Aye. Mayhap she would.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bright flashes of lightning awoke Cristiane sometime in the night. Thunder crashed so violently that she wondered if the isle had been rent in two. Alarmed by the intensity of the storm, she tossed off her blanket and threw on the long-sleeved underkirtle that, along with a tub of bathwater, had miraculously appeared in her chamber after last night’s supper.

  A high-pitched wail pierced the night, and Cristiane stumbled to her chamber door in the dark, wondering what the sound could have been.

  Another door in the gallery opened, and Adam stepped out, holding an iron lamp. In the dim light, Cristiane saw that he was still fully clothed as he walked in the direction opposite her. Cristiane followed, doubting he even knew she was there.

  He opened the door to another chamber farther down, and went in. With bare feet, Cristiane stepped into the doorway and watched as Adam approached his daughter, who cowered in terror in the center of her bed. She was silent, but her eyes were wide with fear, her mouth trembling.

  Another crash of thunder propelled her into her father’s arms.

  He held Margaret close, rocking her, murmuring reassuring words to her. Cristiane looked behind her, but the nurse did not appear. ’Twas just as well, she thought. Adam’s loving embrace was likely to be of more comfort to the bairn than anything the stern old woman might do.

  Cristiane felt a sharp pang of loss as she watched Adam with Margaret, and missed her father more than ever. She recalled the times he’d held and comforted her as a child, and wished for just a moment that she could share those times once again.

  Returning her thoughts to the present, she saw that Adam clearly had no need of assistance, so Cristiane returned to her chamber.

  But ’twas a long time before she was able to return to sleep.

  Shortly before dawn, the rain stopped battering Cristiane’s window. The quiet woke her. She hoped wee Margaret had been able to settle down for the night and allow her father to get some sleep.

  Clad in the thin undertunic she’d put on during the night, Cristiane climbed out of bed and went to the window, then opened the casement. Leaning out across the thick wall, she looked down.

  ’Twas still too dark to see much, but Cristiane had the impression that this chamber overlooked the sea. She sensed it from the sounds of the roaring waves and the distinctive salty scent.

  Cristiane leaned farther and breathed deeply. The smell of the air was heavenly. The clean, pure scent of the rain mingled with the strong odors of the sea and the rich, dark earth of Bitterlee. By the sound of it, the waves were crashing majestically, and Cristiane suddenly had an urge to see it all with her own two eyes when the sun rose.

  Leaving her window open, she picked up a lamp and left the chamber. Quietly, she went to the end of the gallery, where the stairs continued on above her, and began to climb.

  Castle Bitterlee was huge. It had many towers, and even more stairs and strange passageways. Cristiane was unsure where this stair would lead her, but from the conversation of the previous night, she thought it possible that it would lead to the top of the castle, mayhap to a parapet that looked out over the cliffs.

  Without further thought, she continued up the steps.

  When the worst of the storm had finally passed, Margaret fell asleep in Adam’s arms. He returned to his own bed, but managed to sleep only fitfully through the night. The weight of his responsibilities lay heavily on him.

  He finally gave up on sleep sometime before dawn and made his way to the parapet, where his wife had seen fit to end her life.

  The air up on the high tower felt as if it had been washed clean by the rain. Adam blew out the candle of the lamp he’d carried with him, and went to the wall. He had not bothered to dress, other than putting on braes and chausses, but he was immune to the bite of the cool air on his bare chest and back.

  Wearily, he gazed down into the darkness and wondered how life on Bitterlee could have been so terrible that Rosamund would throw herself from this very wall. Adam loved the isle. He knew every rock, every plant, every stream. ’Twas all beautiful to him, even the isolation.

  He knew now that the solitude had been difficult for Rosamund, and he should have made a greater effort to bring visitors to her. He should have realized it and sent her to her father’s home for visits, especially when he’d been called by King Edward to Scotland.

  Why had he not understood how important companionship was to her? He’d thought that with a husband and child to care for, she would be satisfied. She would not need the company of her parents or of her London circle. He had believed her temperament would improve once she became a mother.

  What a fool he’d been, an ignorant lad with no knowledge of how to keep a wife content. If ever he married again, all would be different. He would be certain to surround his wife with friends, if that was her wish.

  Unbidden, an image of Cristiane Mac Dhiubh came to mind. He wondered if she would make friends in York more easily than she would manage here at Bitterlee. Just because her uncle was Earl of Learick did not mean that Cristiane would gain immediate acceptance. Adam suspected that she would seem just as appallingly Scottish to all her Yorkish relations as she did to him.

  Yet, to be honest with himself, she was not exactly appalling. She was most definitely Scottish, but he could not hold that against her. He’d seen with his own eyes how the people of St. Oln had treated her—a half-English outsider. He’d glimpsed a deep well of inner strength that she carried and drew upon whenever circumstances warranted. It made her more attractive to him than any superficial attributes he would have chosen in a woman.

  Not that she was shy of superficial attributes. He was quick to arousal when he thought of her physical presence. From her expressive eyes to her graceful neck, her rose-tipped breasts to the feminine swell of her hips, the mere thought of her had the power to turn him to rock-hard awareness.

  Adam raked one hand through his sleep-disheveled hair. The earliest birds had come awake, and he knew the sun would soon rise. He had Bitterlee matters to attend this day, and needed to concentrate on them—rather than on Cristiane Mac Dhiubh. She was a temporary distrac—

  “Oh! My lord!” gasped a feminine voice.

  Adam turned to see Lady Cristiane stepping onto the parapet with a lamp in hand. She must have been unaware of his presence until the lantern had thrown its light on him.

  “Good morn, my lady,” he said. With the light shining on him he could not see her, but he wondered if she wore the same look of appreciation and hunger that had been in her eyes when she’d seen him half-clothed before.

  He heard what might have been a gasp, then she suddenly blew out the lamp, casting them in darkness again.

  “’Tis early,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

  “Aye,” she replied. “The quiet of the morning woke me.”

  ’Twas a strange way of thinking on it, but Adam supposed she was right. When the rain stopped, it had become eerily quiet. He turned and faced the sea again, wishing there was enough light to see her. Was she as meagerly clad as he?

  ’Twas a notion that had an immediate effect on him. Damnation! he thought. Why had he not gone to Watersby when he’d had the chance?

  “The sun…” He cleared his throat. “The sun will rise soon.”

  She moved closer to the wall and set the lamp on the ground next to her. “Hear the kittiwakes? They’re ready to feed.”

  Her voice was soft and intimate, like a lover’s. He would never grow accustomed to her
manner of speech. Most of the time ’twas not terribly Scottish, though she had enough of a burr to make it not quite English. ’Twas all too enticing, with its smooth musical lilt—rolling sounds that washed over him like the cool waters of the waterfall north of the castle.

  Adam gripped the stone edge of the parapet and forced himself to think of something else. “We have seals, too,” he finally said, “on the outer island.”

  “Ach, ye donna!” Cristiane said, forgetting to mask her burr. She turned to face him excitedly and put one hand on his arm to steady herself.

  “We do,” he said. Though he already had a death grip on the rock wall, the muscles in Adam’s arm bunched at her touch, and heat flared in uncomfortable places. He wished he had a tunic to better cover his reaction to her touch. “’Tis not much of an isle,” he added, turning away from her, “but a pile of rock off the north coast. For some reason, the seals like our insufferable weather.”

  “’Tis not insufferable!”

  “Last night’s storm—”

  “Was truly amazing,” she said with awe in her voice.

  Had he heard her correctly? She was not about to run from the isle as soon as she could get away?

  “You’ve been on Bitterlee less than a day,” he said quietly, drinking in her scent. Her hand remained on his bare arm, and he harnessed the urge to find her fingers and take her hand in his, to touch his lips to the back of it. “How can you judge?”

  “I cannot, not really,” Cristiane said, restraining her burr once again, “but ’tis a beautiful place…Oh, Adam, look!”

  The first rays of the sun splayed out over the water, giving an eerie cast to the scene. Within moments, though, the sky turned a brilliant pink, casting various shades of red and gold over the sea.

  “’Tis breathtaking,” she sighed.

  True enough. Adam could not recall seeing anything quite as grand as Cristiane Mac Dhiubh enjoying her first sunrise on Bitterlee. Her eyes were wide, framed by gold-tipped lashes. Her lips were full and moist, and entirely too alluring.

  She turned slightly toward him, her body close, too close for his own to ignore. He felt his hands grow moist and his heart begin to pound. The rushing surf was naught compared to the roaring in his own ears.

  In the growing light, he saw that she was covered from neck to toe by a thin linen kirtle, yet her enticing form would never be hidden from him again, no matter how well covered it might be. Burned into his memory was the way she’d looked in the firelight the morning he’d seen her undressed.

  ’Twould take only the slightest movement of his hand to pull her close, a trifling tip of his head to bring his lips into contact with hers.

  And every fiber of his being demanded that he do so. He could divest them both of their clothes in seconds, yet Adam knew this was not an acceptable tack. Cristiane was under his protection.

  “Is there a path down to the beach?” she asked, her voice subdued, her breath warm on his chest.

  “There is no beach,” he said roughly. He balled his hands into fists and stepped away. “Not up here near the castle. And no way down to the water, anyhow.”

  “But—”

  “Just rocks and birds down there.”

  He lied. ’Twas possible to get across the rocks and down to the water. He had tried to convince Rosamund to go down with him when they were young and newly married, but his wife had had no interest in dallying near the water with him. She had shunned the lovely pool by the waterfall, too.

  “I’m sure you will enjoy the gardens, though,” he said in a conciliatory tone. ’Twas not an easy climb down to the beach, and he did not want her to risk it, especially not alone. “There is a great deal of new spring growth, and we have a large pond…”

  The sunlight was more golden now, and Cristiane seemed to realize suddenly how inappropriately dressed she was. She’d been at ease in the dark, but now, when she knew he could see her, she felt the need to cross her arms over her breasts.

  When she licked her lips unconsciously, Adam’s entire body clenched, and he forced himself to look away. Though she was decently covered, the linen shift was thin, and it fit entirely too snugly for his peace of mind.

  She seemed to know it.

  “I—I’d best be going back to my chamber…” she said as she stepped away. “Before, er, I…”

  He heard her bare feet softly retreating, and when the stairway door closed, he was able to breathe again.

  Cristiane did not stop until she opened what she thought was the door to her room. Mortified to have stepped into some other bedchamber, she turned and fled, quickly finding the door to her own.

  She knew her color was still high, and she pressed her hands to her cheeks to cool them. She resolved in future to avoid these early morning interludes with Adam Sutton, since they only served to embarrass her.

  Yet she could not regret the few moments she’d spent enjoying his warmth as he stood nearly naked beside her.

  His body was so different, so intriguing. Where she was soft and smooth, he was hard and muscular, and covered with hair. She’d ached to touch him, to run her fingers up the hard planes of his chest through that mat of hair, and see if he was as solid as he looked.

  Heat flooded her cheeks anew and Cristiane stepped over to the basin of fresh water. She washed her face, cooling herself at the same time, then took a long draught of water before dressing.

  She had to get away from here.

  A clean kirtle that had once been a deep green color lay on the trunk at the foot of her bed. The fabric had faded and was worn thin in places, but was in much better condition than the gown she’d been wearing these last weeks. Hastily, she pulled it on over her head and then fastened the laces, finding it as snug a fit as the underkirtle.

  Refusing to be disappointed by this gift, she vowed nonetheless to begin sewing as soon as Adam found some cloth for her to use.

  She sat down and pulled on her shoes, taking half a moment to appreciate Adam’s kindness in buying them for her. She quickly laced them, then left her chamber in search of a way out. She did not want to chance another embarrassing encounter with Adam.

  There were so many passages and doors here in the keep that it was unnecessary to go through the great hall in order to leave. She knew she had only to find the correct passageway, and it would lead her to an outside door. Following an instinctual sense of direction, she made her way to the main floor, without meeting anyone.

  The sun was barely over the horizon when she finally let herself out of the keep through a door near the chapel, with the intention of making her way down to the water.

  There’d been no path to her favorite places at St. Oln, either. Yet she’d followed her father down to the sea all those years before, finding footholds across the rocks when she’d been just a child. There was no reason she could not do the same here on Bitterlee.

  “M’lady…”

  Startled by the low voice and the sound of footsteps on the gravel behind her, Cristiane whirled to see Sir Elwin there. He looked well rested and content.

  “Lord Bitterlee sent me to show ye the sights.”

  She swallowed. “I thank you, Sir Elwin,” she said, “but ’twill not be necessary. I can roam—”

  “Ah, but the lord gave express orders that I’m to escort ye ’round the gardens and such.”

  “But—”

  He took her arm and ushered her back onto the path.

  “No buts,” he said.

  They headed for the garden and all its tame glory.

  Adam was grateful that after the night’s rain, the waterfall would be heavier than usual, and cold. ’Twas what he needed to purge himself of the heat he could not seem to control whenever Cristiane Mac Dhiubh was near.

  The dogs ran ahead of him as he limped up the narrow trail that continued along the escarpment north of the castle, and soon turned onto a narrow footpath through a thick wood. After following the path a short way, he heard it—the thundering of the water as it hit the
stony floor a hundred feet below, filling a pool that overflowed into a river that rushed all the way down to the sea.

  Taking a moment to rub the soreness from his thigh, Adam stopped, perched in a notch between two trees and gazed down at the sight of the falls. ’Twas so beautiful, he was sure Eden must have looked like this.

  The dogs did not allow him to rest for long. Anxious for a good run, they circled him and whined until he left the path and continued on his way. He soon descended to the rock floor, taking care not to slip as he climbed down.

  Ren and Gray were well ahead of him, loping through the shallows, then shaking their coats, spraying water everywhere.

  The roar of the falls was deafening this morning, owing to the increased flow of water. The cold mist sprayed him before he actually stepped into the falls, and he appreciated the shock of it. He started removing his clothes as he walked behind the curtain of water, and when he was fully naked he braced himself, then stepped under the heavy spray.

  The icy blast shocked him. He let out a roar, then shook his body like one of the dogs, relishing the release from tension. He stood under the downpour as long as he could stand it, then dived into the clear, deep pool that was fed by the waterfall. He vowed to stay there until he rid his mind and body of one wild-haired Scotswoman.

  Even if his important body parts froze and fell off.

  Chapter Nine

  In spite of Sir Elwin’s interference, Cristiane enjoyed her morning of exploration. The storm had caused some damage to the gardens, with fallen branches and small floods, but men had already begun setting it to rights. Even so, the grounds were lovely, with newly sprouted flowers and plants.

  Far from the keep was a large pond, inhabited by a brood of ducklings that peeped incessantly as they swam frantically in circles, not far from the bank.

  “Where is the hen?” Cristiane wondered aloud as she approached the reedy edge of the water.

  Elwin shrugged absently.

  Cristiane knew the babies would never leave their mother unless…